


The Proudest Creation

by SpaceWall



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brothers, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Issues, Father-Son Relationship, First Age, Found Family, Gen, Ghost Fëanor, Hurt/Comfort, Psychological Trauma, Sort-of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-31
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2019-12-27 02:49:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18295325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceWall/pseuds/SpaceWall
Summary: Like all great craftsmen Fëanor put his soul into his work. Now, he must live with the consequences of that decision, and so, too, must his children. And their children, too.“I hate you,” Maglor told him, tears streaming down his face, “I wish I had never been your son.”Maedhros, usually the family peacemaker, could not find it in him to blunt Maglor’s sharp tongue.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> TW/CW: Suicide attempt, suicide ideation, trauma, past rape/non-con. Basically everything you might expect from a story that starts directly after the War of Wrath, with Maedhros’s POV. 
> 
> Having said all that, I like good things for my characters, and can promise better-than canon outcomes.

The truth was, they didn’t touch the Silmarils until they were well clear of the Host of the Valar. Maedhros’s hand had been full, a sword, bloodied and bloodier, and he did not trust the ill-maintained prosthetic with something so important.. Maglor had carried the two Silmarils together wrapped in the cloth upon which they had found them, and if asked to justify himself, he would have said that it was not right for the younger brother to touch them first. But Maedhros did not ask. Instead, he dropped his sword, and, ignoring the wound where a Nolodorin sword had cut deep into his arm, he extended his hand. 

There were no words for this moment. Maglor sheathed his blade, and, slowly, unwrapped the cloth and held the two stones out to Maedhros. “Together?” He asked. Maedhros could hear the uncertainty in his voice. They were hallowed, after all, these stones, and they had burned on Morgoth’s brow to the very second they had been torn from it. 

Maedhros gave him only a tilt of his head, and together, hearts pounding in their chests, they reached into the red cloth- ironic- and grabbed a silmaril. 

The stones were smaller than they had seemed on Morgoth’s brow, and indeed, as their hands closed, the tips of their fingers brushed together, before each felt a jewel the size of a robin’s egg nestled in their palms. 

That was when the screaming started. Maglor’s screaming. His voice had always been beautiful, but it was not beautiful now. He doubled over, tearing his throat with the terrible screeching. Maedhros squeezed his eyes shut, and did not scream. It was a rod of iron, shoved through his wrist, and then doubled over to drive through his palm. It was like every other pain, and absolutely singular. It was a thousand whips and knives and hot coals, and it was the first torture of Maedhros’s life that he had received because he deserved it. He squeezed his hand shut, and, without ever looking at Maglor, turned to walk away. 

Maglor watched him go, and found he could not say anything at all.

Let it never be said of Maedhros Fëanorion that he did not know his own madness. He was, fundamentally, more than he was anything else, aware of it. His madness was the oath, always there, at the edge of his mind. His madness was waking screaming, forgetting where he was. His madness was the desire to tear away his skin and expose the monster inside. His madness was feeling a hand that wasn’t there. His madness was a danger to everyone. It was blood at Alqualondë and Sirion and in the beauty of Menegroth. His madness was why it was the everlasting darkness for him, and there was only one way to assure that: as Beleriand crumbled under the strain of war, he would die with it. He made his way towards the ridge. 

His madness was most certainly not the kind of madness that caused him to hear his father’s voice in his head saying, “Nelyafinwë, step away from that precipice right now.”

This, finally, cause Maedhros to scream and drop the Silmaril. It rolled through burnt and blackened grass, and lay there among the ashes, fire encased in crystal. The fires of the earth spun below him, and Maedhros backed away and sat beside the Silmaril. It twinkled threateningly at him. The earth shook.

Freed from the terrible pain and the terrible power, his mind turned to Maglor. Maedhros curled in on himself between death and salvation, and wept.

Fëanor’s mind was already turned to Maglor, just as it was turned to Maedhros, and, elsewhere, to Eärendil, who was discovering that he would be returned to Valinor without the chance to see his sons. Fëanor was not apart from his jewels, even when they were apart from each other. 

Maglor had not dropped his Silmaril, and he had not followed his brother. Instead, once his voice was gone and he had no tears left to shed, he had picked himself up, and stumbled towards the sea. 

His purpose was singular, and even as he heard Fëanor shouting, “Kanafinwë! You need to go after Nelyo. He needs you,” Maglor carried on. He did not know his own madness, and in the haze of pain and desperation, he ran towards the sea. The shaking rage beneath the earth carried him off his feet when he had the shore in sight. It frothed as the doom of Beleriand came upon it. There was naught but doom for Beleriand, now, but Maglor was not ready to accept the doom that came for him in turn. He tumbled down the steep hill, sword and armour and clenched fist creating many points for bruising. 

Fëanor begun asking him where he was going, begging him to stop. In his mind, it seemed likely that if one son was ready to throw himself into the fires of the earth, the other might be quite likely to throw himself into the sea. 

“Nelyo,” he called out, urgently, fully aware that his eldest son could not hear him. “Your brother needs you.”

In fractals across what passed for vision within the silmarils, he watched tears stream down the mutilated face of the boy who had once been- with some ties, would always be- his proudest creation. Nelyafinwë had been a small baby, it had seemed at the time, but perfect in every respect. 

Nerdanel had teased Fëanáro over the matter then. “You would call any child you made perfect,” she had said, when Telperion shone and neither of them had slept in days. 

“Any child we made,” he had retorted, and, exhausted, she had laughed. 

Nelyafinwë should not have been able to hear him. Even those who had touched the silmaril lost the ability the second they relinquished it. Eärendil had heard him, and had placed the silmaril at the helm of his ship and abandoned Fëanor there. Lúthien had heard him, and spoken to him, but rendered mortal, the ability had escaped her. Elwing had never believed her own ears, and Thingol had sewn fabric over the back of the Silmaril so it had never touched his bare skin. Dior, raised on his mother’s tales, had listened to Fëanor’s words, but, in anger, had rejected him and taken to Thingol’s course, in the end. 

And yet, Nelyafinwë looked up and said, “Maglor.” There was something dark still in his eyes, but for that moment, they were clear enough to show concern.

Whether he heard Fëanor’s words or not, he glanced over to the silmaril, and carefully placed it into the palm of his metal hand, forcing the fingers closed around it. 

This action robbed Fëanor temporarily of this angle of sight, but he could feel Maedhros’s motions, long legs carrying him back the way he had come.

Bruised and battered, Maglor picked himself up, and stumbled towards the water. He could smell burning flesh, but the pain had gone. Disjointedly, he knew that it was a disconnect between fëa and hröa that had vanished his suffering, not any form of healing. The ocean was so close, frothing angrily as white teeth gnashed. At least there was no blood on the shore, this time. He could hear his father screaming everywhere as he stepped into the water. 

“Shut up!” He snapped, and, winding up, he threw the silmaril as far as he could. 

His legs gave out under him, and he fell to his knees in the water. His father’s voice in his head finally, blessedly, stopped.

When Maedhros returned to where they had first touched the silmarils, he found that Maglor had gone. Where only moments before, grief and regret would have subsumed him, determination welled up. He could die later; Maglor need him now. He examined the ground carefully until he caught sight of tracks, making their way towards the sea. Knowing, just as Fëanor did, how easily death could come from the water, he shucked off his armor where he had left his sword, and ran as fast as he could. 

Maglor let his hand fall into the water, the salt and cold both stinging and soothing his burns. Unlike Maedhros, he had not been injured in the conflict itself. He had killed without taking a single blow, as one of the finest warriors of the Noldor. And here was the purpose to which he had turned his life. Maybe Maedhros was right; this was the time for it to end. Maglor had not thought so at first, but he was a coward who feared the punishment he had earned. Why was it taking Maedhros so long to die?

And then a long, pale arm was wrapping around him, and pulling him back onto the beach. Maglor didn’t fight it. If someone wanted to kill him, that was their prerogative. 

“Maglor!” Maedhros shouted at him, eyes wild and hair and face streaked with ash. Blood from his wounded arm soaked into his tunic. He had lost his armor somewhere, but there was more life in him than there had been when they parted. 

“Leave me alone.”

Maedhros reached out to his brother with his flesh hand, where it burned and stung. He bit his lip to distract himself from the pain. Whatever he needed to do to convince Maglor to live, he would. “If you stay here, you will die.”

Maglor didn’t take his hand. “So? What do you care if we live or die?” His tone was bitter, and the stab of guilt Maedhros felt was more so. 

“I care if you live or die.”

“That is not your decision to make.”

It wasn’t, any more than Maedhros’s life and death were Maglor’s. But how to convince him? “That decision is not either of ours. We owe our lives- our punishment- to those we wronged.”

Maglor laughed derisively. “Oh, so now you would have us submit to Eönwë?”

The judgement of the maia would be harsh, Fëanor knew. He yearned to reach out, to tell his sons that the oath they were forced into was not their fault, and they did not deserve the eternal punishment of the Valar for it. Nelyafinwë had the sense, he knew, but equally, he knew that his eldest would take any punishment to ensure his brothers lived. 

Fortunately, Maedhros used his sense to say, “Did we wrong Eönwë? No, I would have us submit to Sindarin justice.”

Fëanor, who had been listening in on Eärendil’s conversations even as his sons died, knew what that meant. It was, as of the end of the war, decided. The two princes of the Sindar had chosen their fates. One was a man, and the other man elf. By the laws of the eldar, this child was now the ruler of the Sindar in Beleriand, until it crumbled utterly. He was also, according to Eärendil, the victim of a terrible, vicious kidnapping by Fëanor’s sons. If they presented themselves to the Sindar and their new king, both would surely die. Maedhros was cunning, but he must have been relying on some other claim to the Sindarin throne to prevail, and didn’t know.

Maglor looked up at him. “You cannot ask that of them.”

“You cannot deny that it is their right to choose.”

Maglor knew he was being played, but he could not disagree. He loved Elros and Elrond too well to deny them the choice. He took Maedhros’s hand, feeling the ragged wound against his palm. Maedhros’s fingers closed tight, and pulled him to his feet.

“I got rid of it,” Maglor told him, “Ulmo can have it for all I care.” 

Maedhros looked down at his metal fist, where the incandescent light shone through. It didn’t hurt, in there. “I still have mine.”

“I can see that.”

How to tell him, Maedhros wondered. “I think it saved me.”

Fëanor felt his spirit swell at that. That Maedhros considered himself saved. That Maedhros still felt he could be saved. 

Maglor, for his part, stared at his brother in total disbelief. Because the Silmarils were nothing but pain, and that meant, “did you hear him too?”

Maedhros had known that his father’s voice had not been one of his normal hallucinations, but he had thought it personal, still, Eru’s will stopping him from ending his own life. He nodded, and together, they looked down at the light. Slowly, Maedhros uncurled the metal fingers, and, by mutual consent, they each pressed a fingertip to it. 

Braced for the pain this time, neither of them screamed, and into the silence, Fëanor spoke. “I am sorry,” he said, “I am so very sorry.”

He loved his jewels dearly, for they were of himself, and in stealing them, Morgoth had stolen his fëa. But more important still, and more of himself, were his children. He had watched, from Morgoth’s brow, as Nelyafinwë had writhed in agony. He had watched from Elwing’s terrified hands as Doriath and Sirion had fallen, and he had known what evil he had wrought. His great works had caused so much death. The greedy king of the Sindar, dying at the hands of the dwarves, had not troubled him overmuch, but the guilt he knew tortured his sons at the choices they were forced to make troubled him a great deal. His sons did not deserve that merely because their father was a vicious, angry fool.

“I hate you,” Maglor told him, tears streaming down his face, “I wish I had never been your son.”

Maedhros, usually the family peacemaker, could not find it in him to blunt Maglor’s sharp tongue. Fëanor took it surprisingly well. 

“It would have been better for you if you had not been. For both of you.”

Maglor switched fingers. Maedhros said, “we failed. If we had known that you were trapped-”

The guilt was writ large across his face. “I kept it from you for a reason, Nelyo. Nothing can hurt me here. This is not what I ever wanted for either of you. Now stop burning yourselves, and run. I can see from Eärendil’s boat that Beleriand still crumbles. Get to high ground, or get inland.”

Maedhros pressed his metal fingers closed, and closed his flesh hand around Maglor’s again. He was tired, and pained, and bleeding, but he knew that he had to save his brother. As long as Maglor needed him, he could not go. And anyhow, maybe it would look different by the light of day.

“Back to camp,” he ordered, “and then we can find Elros and Elrond.”

Elrond would later be forced to admit that he had slept through Maedhros and Maglor’s attack on the host of the valar. He had sat in bed after dinner, Elros curled into his side, feeling their decision made, but, for the last time in his life, mortal needs asserted themselves, and he slept deeply and for many hours. It was one of the last times they would ever fall asleep in a pile of tangled limbs where it was impossible to tell where one twin ended and the other began. That morning, when the news finally reached them, Elrond pled his trauma to the former lords of Doriath – “Lord Oropher, our mother-” – and pulled his brother aside. 

Elros knew what was coming before Elrond opened his mouth. His brother had too much love in his heart for their kidnappers. But even as he thought it, a swell of worry for them both rose. His childish anger was gone, now, and he was a man grown. He could feel his heart beating in his chest, and knew that every beat was one closer to the last. He was scared, but also not, and the reason he was not scared, he knew, was because Maglor had taught him of Eru’s gift, because Maedhros had assured him that the sheer amount of time was less important than how it was spent. His hand found the hilt of his sword, closing over the leather he had wrapped to cover the fëanorian star.

“Let’s go,” he said. 

Elrond blinked at him. “What?”

He was sweet, but an idiot. “After them, Elrond. I know you want to. I refuse to let you go alone.”

Elros knew that he did not have the strength to defend Elrond against one of Fëanor’s sons, let alone both. They were the people who had trained the both of them to fight, and knew all their weaknesses. That did not change the fact that he would rather die himself than allow any harm to come to Elrond.

Elrond felt a swell of love for his brother. “I’ll go tell Gil-galad.”

Elros liked Gil-galad well enough, but- “you cannot possibly mean to tell him that we’re going to go look for the people who attacked this camp last night.”

“No, but I can tell him that hearing about another Fëanorion attack reminded us of our own pasts, and we need to take some time to ourselves.”

He saw himself off, and Elros, drawing his sword an inch or so, traced Curufin’s mark on the blade, and watched the sun rise. Elves always started their days early. Elrond, he knew, always felt like a slacker after sleeping about four hours, but Elros heartily disagreed. When he was King, he was never going to order people to start their days before the sun rose. 

Maedhros traced the wound on his hand through the bandages, and watched the sunrise. It was one more sunrise than he had expected to see, but then, most of them were. It had been such a shock, the first time. He had seen such beauty then, despite all the pain. It was the same, now. Maglor was sleeping inside the tent, while Maedhros leaned up against a tree and ‘kept watch’, knowing there was little to watch for. It was a relief. 

“I could not think of a way to tell him that I can hear you without touching it,” Maedhros said to the Silmaril, where it sat on the ground beside him. “It is easy to explain that you are in the stones. It is harder to explain that you are in my head.”

Well, Fëanor supposed, that answered that. “This has never happened before. I could not tell you why I am in your head, and not his.”

Maedhros lowered his voice so Maglor would not hear him. “Maybe it is because there is little else left in my mind.”

Fëanor wished for an arm to extend, for a chest to pull Nelyo against, for a sword to fend off every evil that tormented him, and a hammer with which to crush those who had already done him harm. But he had none of these things. Instead, he was part of a fëa trapped in three rocks, nothing more or less. He could not protect his sons. He could not do anything for them, save speak.

“That is not true.”

“And how would you know?” Maedhros demanded, feeling a swell of bitterness towards his father. “What do you know about me? Do you even know my name?”

“I know that the Doriathrim called you Maedhros. I have seen everything that any of the three could see, all this time.”

They both knew what he left unsaid: that Morgoth had worn Fëanor’s stones while he tortured his son. That he had worn them while he had raped him. It was not in either of their natures to acknowledge this, for very different reasons. Maedhros wondered what his father thought of him, seeing him weak. Fëanor wondered what his son thought of his impotent failure to help in any way.

“Is it Maedhros, then?” 

With someone who cared so much about language as Fëanor, it was always a gamble to change the word for anything. To change the name of a family member was more likely still to create conflict. “Yes.”

“Alright,” Fëanor said, more for his own benefit than for Maedhros’s. It was the end of that line of conversation. “Are you sure it is safe, to stay here? You did not exactly cover your tracks.”

Maedhros had considered the possibility, but, “Eönwë ordered them to leave us be. Only the Noldor would disobey him, I think.”

“And when Káno- Maglor?” Maedhros nodded. “When Maglor wakes? Do you intend to submit to the new King of Doriath? From what Eärendil says, he is not kindly disposed towards you.”

Maedhros’s brow furrowed. “There is a new King of Doriath? I assume it is not Celeborn? He did have a paternal claim, but I do not think he bears me any particular ill will.”

The name was unfamiliar to Fëanor. “No. I suppose you have not heard, but they have decided to make Eärendil’s sons choose between being men and elves. One will die, and the other will not.”

“Elrond is King of the Sindar,” Maedhros deduced, a swell of misplaced pride in his chest. 

He had not wanted to take the children, and he certainly had not wanted to keep them. Initially, he had wanted to leave them there, to be found by the other survivors. But Maglor had refused. “What if Morgoth gets here before Círdan does?” He had pleaded. “Would you have more blood on our hands?” So they had taken the children with them as they fled. Later, Maedhros had wanted to take them to some kin, to Círdan and Gil-galad, or Galadriel and Celeborn, and again Maglor had refused. “Would you have them raised as pawns?” He had demanded, eyes full of fire. By this stage, it was clear that the twins had not been raised well in Sirion. Eärendil had been absent, and Elwing possessed. Those who had raised them had mostly done so in the hopes of benefiting from their favour later. Maedhros knew what it was to be an heir, to have your very existence a weapon to be used by manipulative people, and he had had Nerdanel to protect him from that fate. He could not have borne it happening to people as good as Elrond and Elros. 

“Eärendil said that after Elwing… that you had taken the children.”

There was a nervousness in his tone that allowed Maedhros to understand. “You think he would hurt us?”

There was no fear in his voice. It was unlike Maedhros. “You think he would not?”

Maedhros looked into the sun. It was well over the horizon, now, burning away the mist that lay thick over the ground. It burned at his eyes, and he looked away, watching the horizon instead. After a moment, he stood, the added height allowing him to see down to where the shoreline had moved to. He wondered how far the Valar intended to allow Beleriand to crumble before they would be done. Unless all the world drowned, Himring would probably stay above water. If they moved there- no, they were going to Elrond. It was the excuse that was keeping Maglor with him. 

“No,” Maedhros admitted, sitting back down, “it is very unlikely. Elros, maybe, but Elrond does not have a hurtful bone in his body. And certainly not for Maglor. Not that Maglor sees it, of course, but he raised those boys like they were his own, and they know it. When I sent them away, Elrond cried and Elros threw a fork at me.”

They sat in silence- or, rather, Maedhros sat and Fëanor remained a rock- until Maedhros fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elrond and Elros look for their fathers, Fëanor looks out for his sons, and justice is meted out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs/TWs: implied past rape/non-con, discussion of suicide, suicidal thoughts, past canonical character death, unhealthy relationship with food. 
> 
> The Silm is fucked up, y’all. I’m working with what I’ve got.

Elros saw neither hide nor hair of either of Fëanor’s sons until they reached the pile of Maedhros’s armour and his sword. 

“Fan out,” Elros commanded, even though he was not really in charge. “It isn’t a body, and it is not in Maedhros’s nature to go unarmed. If his sword is here-” He picked up the blade, and tied it to the right side of his belt. It was a fine blade, made by Curufin’s hand, and Elros, whose sword had been a gift from Maedhros himself, was not one to waste a blade simply on account of its providence. 

Elrond knew that he was giving orders to hide his fear. “No need. There are two sets of tracks away from this place.” He pointed them out. The first went away, down towards the sea. The second went up towards the fissures where Beleriand was coming apart. The earth had been trembling for many days, and this age ended and the next began. That trail was disturbed, but it was clear someone had either come or gone that way. 

“I should have seen that,” Elros scolded himself, rubbing at his eyes. He crouched beside the tracks towards the ocean. “Why didn’t I see that.”

Elrond thought he knew. Even the finest mortal did not have the sight of an elf. “It’s easy to miss.”

Elros knew that it wasn’t. “Where first? The tracks towards the sea are clearer, but-”

“Up first,” Elrond decided, and they were on their way. 

By the time Maglor rose, his burned hand terribly itchy, the sun was well in the sky. He had an instant of panic at Maedhros’s absence, but no sooner had he run outside after him than he found his brother asleep, silmaril unguarded at his side. Touching it, he knew, would burn, but he need to. With the awareness of the day, he stripped his shirt off, and, wrapping it around his good hand, pressed the silmaril to the outside of his upper arm. It burned, but less terribly than his fingers had. 

“Is he alright?” Maglor asked. He scanned his brother for new burns, but could see none. 

“I can hear you if you are not touching it,” Fëanor replied, speaking very quickly. “When it is your turn to talk, pull it away. Maedhros is not well, but better than he was last night. We spoke. He can hear me without touching it, and is afraid to tell you.”

Maglor pulled the stone away, and looked at the red patch on his arm. “Ow. Why does he not want me to know?”

He pressed it down again. “I do not know his mind.”

And repeat. “Can you do the same with me?”

“I do not even know what was done in the first place. Now stop hurting yourself and go eat something.”

Maglor was not willing to admit that, in anticipation of their own deaths, he and Maedhros had not kept any food at their camp. Nor was he willing to leave his brother alone here, sleeping, and even if he had been willing to, the forests of Beleriand were exhausted by years of war. There was little and less to eat. Maglor had but one thing in his favour: practice. 

“I am not hungry, but thank you.”

Fëanor could see his uncanny thinness, as bad as his brother’s, if less obvious because he was neither as naturally reedy nor as tall. “Liar,” he said, to himself, and though Maglor did not hear him, he added, “I wish you would look after yourself.”

Maglor felt the emptiness in his stomach, and settled himself down to watch over his brother. 

Elros pulled his brother physically away from the collapsing edge where the tracks ended. “No!” He cried, brokenly. Elros didn’t say anything at all. It hurt too much. He had thought that he would feel it, that one of them would feel it, if Maedhros had died. But not like this. Never like this. 

It had to be Maedhros. Elrond sucked in a breath, and choked. Maglor would never have chosen to die. But Maedhros was a different matter. It was said that suicide was alien to the eldar, but Elrond believed that was a lie. The Firstborn were people, same as the rest of them.

“We have to go after Maglor,” Elros managed, knowing it was the best way to get his brother on his feet. 

Elrond screamed into his hands, and beat at the burnt ground, sending a chunk of ash and dirt flying into the centre of the earth. “He didn’t deserve this.”

It was true, much as Elros was loath to admit it. Maedhros had suffered far more for his crimes than any person who had done them of their own volition- which Maedhros had not- would have deserved. 

“I know.”

“I think that the things Morgoth did to him were even worse than people talk about.”

That was true, too. “I didn’t want him to die.”

Elrond took his hand, and pulled himself up, covering both of them in ash. “I know.”

There was still one father that the pair of them might be able to save. At the fastest pace Elros’s newly-mortal body could manage, they began to run towards the swift-approaching sea.

It was angry, beating up the coast and sweeping away trees. Elrond could feel the music changing around them, discordant, but also bright. The tracks ended there, too, but it was clear that it was because the sea had washed them away. 

“You would have felt it if Maglor died,” Elros reassured. 

Elrond thought he would have felt it when Maedhros died too, but with the abandoned sword and armour, and his tracks leading into the fire, it was certain that he had. There was no point in deluding himself. No matter how well Elrond had loved him, he had not been loved in return.

“What now?”

Elros was going to be a king for the rest of his life. Now seemed as good a time to start giving orders as any. Maybe for once, Elrond would actually listen to him without question. “Now, we go and find their camp. Maglor may well be there, or may have left something we could use to track him, with hounds, perhaps.”

Elrond rewarded him with a faint smile. “You would track him down even then?”

“If there is any chance- yes.” To give Elrond peace of mind, if little else. Elros put his hand on his brother’s shoulder, and squeezed tight. 

When Maedhros woke, he ordered Maglor away, to make his best attempt at hunting. His hand ached too much to wield a bow, and the prosthetic did not have the dexterity he needed to set snares. Instead, he set himself to the task of making a fire.

“How long do you think we have before the sea reaches this place?” He asked his father.

“From what I see with Eärendil and under the waters? I would guess a day? Maybe more? The army is either moving into boats, or packing up, and they are further inland than you.”

Maedhros focused on the task at hand, and, after a time, managed to set a spark that he fanned carefully into a flame. Whichever Vala controlled firestarting disliked him, and since Thangorodrim, it had been particularly bad. 

As if reading his mind, Fëanor asked, “how did you escape?”

He had been there when Morgoth heard the report of Maedhros’s disappearance, and later, reports of his exploits against the enemy. It had always bothered him not to know.

Maedhros squeezed his eyes shut in pain. “Morgoth didn’t know how it happened?”

“Or he never spoke aloud of it.” 

It had been almost a good memory, once, but tinged with grief, now. “Fingon saved me.” 

Fëanor waited for him to elaborate, and in time, he did. 

“After we abandoned them, Nolofinwë and his children, along with Arafinwë’s, decided to walk. It took them years. Many died before even seeing Beleriand. But those who survived eventually came upon our camp and Maglor, who told them that he was High King of the Noldor. It was almost the start of a war then, and it was under those conditions that Fingon found out where I was. He took that knowledge, and walked himself to Thangorodrim. I wanted him to kill me and save himself. Fingon refused. Manwë sent eagles to carry us home, and that was that.” 

Mulling this information over in his, Fëanor asked, “and what happened to him? Your Findekáno.”

“He died.” The blankness in Maedhros’s tone was so obviously a disguise. Fëanor could hear all the pain under it. 

Though he had never liked Nolofinwë’s eldest son, it was inarguable that Maedhros had. More than a little. And for the boy to have walked into certain death for him, his feelings must have been returned. 

“I am sorry that happened.”

It was not what Maedhros had expected to hear, and it broke something in him to realize that his father knew. Had known all along, maybe. “When did you realize that I loved him?”

Maedhros could be blunt, when he needed to. Fëanor was usually blunt, whether he needed to be or not. “When was the first time he stayed the night after you smuggled him in?”

“You knew about that?”

It had been obvious, to anyone with eyes or ears. To start with, there had been the whispering, late at night. In other auditory evidence had been the sounds of Fingon sneaking in at night and out in the morning through Maedhros’s window. There had been crumbs from midnight snacks, a mysteriously appearing extra blanket in Maedhros’s room, several tunics and tights that had been too small for him finding themselves in the wash, and, Fëanor’s personal favourite, the time he had gotten up early to study Telperion and had seen Fingon sneaking out himself. 

The whole thing made Maedhros’s heart clench. The good memories, once again marred, still made him want to smile. Fingon had been kind, and funny, and beautiful like starlight. If there had been any fears in that time, it had been of their fathers finding out about first their friendship, and then their budding romance. To know both that they had been afraid for no reason and that his father loved him anyways was too much entirely. He bit the inside of his lip so as not to cry. 

“Watch out!” Fëanor cried suddenly, and Maedhros automatically went for his dagger, spinning around to look for the source of the danger. He wished that he had not abandoned his sword, no matter how symbolically resonant it had seemed at the time.

He had expected orcish stragglers or spider. Maybe, if he was particularly unlucky, Laiquendi or Moriquendi. Instead what he stared down was two half-mortal princes, each with a sword drawn, looking shocked. Elrond made to drop his sword, and Elros took it from him with a steady hand. Maedhros sheathed his blade with respect, and dropped it to the ground to prove to both of them that he meant no harm. The second neither of them were pointy, Elrond launched towards him and wrapped him in a hug so tight it hurt. Reflexively, Maedhros hugged back.

Elros sheathed his own blade, and, carefully, laid Elrond’s down on a flat stone. Then, he untied Maedhros’s from his belt and set this down as well. It seemed inappropriate to thank the Valar for the survival of Fëanor’s son, but the relief he felt was so great that he wanted to raise his hands to the sky and praise them all. Whatever he felt, Elrond, who loved them better, must have felt more so. Maedhros, from the look on his worn and weary face, mostly seemed confused. 

“We thought you were dead,” Elros told him, trying to meet the eyes of the elf who had taught him everything he knew about ruling with all the strength he had.

Maedhros looked down to Elrond. Carefully, he peeled him away, and met gentle eyes. “It will be alright,” He promised, and was almost shocked to find that it was not a lie.

“Don’t you dare die,” Elrond snapped, knowing full well that he sounded childish. It was childish, but he didn’t care. Maedhros wasn’t allowed to leave him. Elros was already doing that. He seized Maedhros’s hand in his, examining the bandages that covered much of it, and the gaps where burns were visible. He would make a poultice later; Elrond suddenly wished he had brought his healer’s supplies with him. 

“They are not hurting me, Atar,” Maedhros said suddenly, causing both of the Peredhel to stare at him.

That probably would require some explanation, Maedhros realized. “My father put part of his fëa in his silmarils.”

“And you want to tell your executioners that?”

Maedhros instinctively shook his head before realizing that his father wasn’t at an angle to see him. “I will not lie to them. They deserve to know.”

Elrond reluctantly turned away from Maedhros to look towards the silmaril. It was extraordinarily beautiful, and he mistrusted it greatly. “I can’t hear him.”

“If you wanted to, you would have to touch it.” Maedhros found he did not want Elrond to risk the pain, but the odds of the stone hurting him were low. His fear was irrational. “If you want to, I will not stop you.”

Elros strode towards the jewel almost automatically. This is what my mother was willing to die for, he thought. This is what our fathers killed for. I was a pawn for this. Everyone except for Elrond loved this more than me. It isn’t much. He reached out, and touched it, and felt nothing. Had Maedhros finally lost his mind?

Elrond came up behind his brother, and place a single finger beside Elros’s on the surface of the jewel. Instantly, he could feel another presence there with them. He looked back to Maedhros for confirmation. 

“Say something,” Maedhros said. 

“Hello,” Fëanor greeted, with a tone of suspicion. He was, Elrond realized, being protective of his son. It was the most endearing thing he’d ever learned about Fëanor.

Elros plainly didn’t hear anything. Elrond said, “Maedhros is telling the truth. Hello, Lord Prince.”

What was the proper title for someone who summerily outranked the king you had sworn yourself to follow?

“He is dead,” Maedhros noted, “I think any titles at this stage are superfluous.”

There was the sound of steel being drawn behind them. Elros had leapt back from the silmaril and drawn his blade before Elrond could even realize his sword was gone and reach for a knife instead. 

Maglor lowered his sword with a sigh, and said, “well, that saves us a trip.”

If Maedhros looked more lively than they had expected, Maglor seemed dead on his feet. Like Maedhros, his hand was bandaged, and he cradled it to his chest once his sword was sheathed. He suddenly seemed very young. 

“Maglor,” Maedhros said, calmingly. Maglor dropped to his knees.

Desperately, Maedhros flashed his eyes between Elrond and the silmaril until he caught on and picked up the jewel. 

“He wants you to pass a sentence on him, some sort of vengeance,” Fëanor explained as quickly as he could. He was trusting in Maedhros’s judgement and his meaningful eye contact. The careful way Elrond set the silmaril back in its place seemed to support the level of trust Maedhros placed in the child.

Elros seemed about to speak, but Elrond cut him off. “Maglor, look at me.”

Maglor tilted his head up towards the child who he had wanted to call his son. The mortality that had once clung to Elrond’s skin was gone, replaced by the radiance of the firstborn. He had not the look of those who had seen the trees, but the light of Lúthien’s blood in him had gifted him beauty and grace beyond that of any fullblooded elf born outside Valinor. If he was to die, Maglor thought, let it be by the will of someone so just and true as this. 

Elrond looked into his father’s eyes, and found that there was no punishment he could have offered that was worse than the way Maglor’s very fëa was ripping itself apart. It hurt to watch. He curled in on himself with the simple reflexes of someone in pain. 

As Maedhros and Elros watched, Elrond dropped to his knees, and wrapped his arms around Maglor. Maedhros smiled coyly. His mortal son breathed out a sigh of relief. 

“It is as you expected,” Fëanor noted, for Maedhros’s ears only. Maedhros winked in his direction, the tough, scarred skin of his face contorting at the gesture. Nobody else paid him any mind. 

“I do not blame you,” Elrond whispered, for Maglor’s ears only, although he knew that at least Maedhros could hear him, by virtue of elven blood. “I would not see you hurt or dead. I love you as a father.”

Maglor drew back from him. He could not allow himself this happiness. He had not earned it. “There is too much blood on my hands for that, Elrond.”

Much as Elrond hated the thought, he knew that Maglor would not let up until he received some kind of punishment. And indeed, though none of what he deserved was for Elrond’s sake, the Teleri of Alqualondë would surely have felt that he needed to be punished. Elrond folded his legs under himself, and sat back on his feet. 

“Maglor, son of Fëanor, I charge you with the wellbeing of Elwë’s house, until such a time as they discharge you of it.”

Maglor stared at him open mouthed for some time. Elros bit his lip to hide the smile that threatened to burst forth. His brother was too clever for his own good. But in this instance, just clever enough. 

“I swear-” Maglor found himself interrupted by Elrond’s hand over his mouth. 

“Do you accept this duty? Please answer yes, I do, or no, I do not.”

The swell of pride in Maedhros’s chest did not surprise him anymore. Maglor said, “Yes, I do.”

Elros looked over his shoulder towards Maedhros, who could read the amusement and relief in his eyes. 

“Maedhros?” His voice was soft, and a little questioning. Maedhros thought he knew what was being asked of him. 

“It might not be prudent to have the both of us in the same place.” Elrond and Maglor deserved each other, and, with years and decades to settle into it, Maglor would be welcomed back into elven society. He was a natural charmer, and not distinguished by look in the ways that Maedhros was. Indeed, by another name, Maglor might well live peacefully among elves for many years, an uncommonly good musician in the service of King Elrond Peredhel of the Sindar. 

Elros looked down at his hands. “It is my understanding that I am to be offered an opportunity to rule a kingdom of men, not so far west as to be Within Valinor’s sight, but as close as man may pass to those lands.”

Widowed and asked to watch her child and all her descendants age and die, Melian of Doriath had fled from duty and loyalty alike. Maedhros understood her grief, but he would not bow before it. He had experienced a thousand torments, and would live a thousand more to ensure that Elros’s life passed in happiness and security. “That might be enough distance, yes.”

Maglor looked at his brother over Elrond’s shoulder. He worried for his health, of body and heart, but when Maedhros met his eyes, it was with a rueful smile. For the first time in long years, they both felt a lightness in their hearts that said everything would turn out alright. 

Fëanor watched this scene, and thought that if he had eyes, they would have been rather misty. But not all was settled. 

“What about me?” He asked, knowing that Maedhros would hear him. In a calm voice, Maedhros repeated the words to the assembled family. 

Though Elrond regretted it, he knew what he had to say. “He cannot stay here. The last thing these wartorn people need is a jewel that will provoke infighting no matter who holds it.”

There was that pride again. “He is right,” Maedhros affirmed, “Beleriand- or rather, whatever we are calling this thing that comes after- deserves to be free of it. The Moriquendi never asked for this. With Morgoth gone and his servants diminished, they deserve a chance to finally build the world free from Valinor’s intervention that they wanted.”

“Well I will not have it in my lands,” Elros proclaimed, “man has no more need of the strife, and anyways, even if we did, it would be an uncomfortable truth with Telerin neighbours.”

“But you are willing to take Fëanor’s eldest into your household?”

Elros resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Maedhros. “You can be excused as my prisoner. You, the jewel, and Maglor making no efforts to retrieve either is rather less subtle.” 

They all looked to Maglor, who had not yet spoken. “The oath would only allow it to go to so many people,” he said carefully, “and though we break it by giving one to Ulmo and leaving one with Eärendil, it would be best practice to keep one in trusted hands, that it might assuage the darkness.”

“Who?” Elrond wondered.

The look on Maglor’s face was so assured of his own cleverness that it was practically wicked.  
_  
Dear Lady Nerdanel Mahtaniel,_

_Please offer the courier my sincere thanks if he has not left already. He has no idea what he sailed with, and is rather under the impression it was a favour to Ereinion Gil-galad, the High King of the Noldor in Middle Earth (formerly of Beleriand)._

_On the off chance that ruse was rather unsubtle, you’ll find that the package itself is spelled against opening, courtesy of Lady Galadriel, but a simple song on your favourite instrument (as of the Years of the Trees) should undo that. That will also reveal the rest of the letter._

_Best wishes,_

_Elrond Peredhel,_  
Eärendillion,  
Emeritus King of Doriath,  
Emeritus King of the Sindar in Middle Earth (formerly of Beleriand)  
Emeritus King of Gondolin  
Herald to Ereinion Gil-galad,  
Lord of Tol Himring  
  
Nerdanel called thanks after the young golden-haired elf, and then went to the stately harp that still had a place in her living room after all these years. No mysterious note from a stranger with so many titles could be unimportant. She only had to pluck a few notes before the fist-sized package, wrapped in many layers of leather and twine, and for some obscure reason, very large leaves, was unravelling, smaller and smaller, to reveal a Robin’s egg of pure light. 

The letter revised itself, the previous message editing briefly to scribble out Eärendillion in favour of ‘Maglorion’, before disappearing entirely to allow new words to fill the space. They were in an assortment of disparate hands, only one of which she recognized. Although this was not the first, it was the one that she read immediately.  
__  
Ammë,  
I’m sorry. For leaving, and for letting so many bad things happen, and for all of it really. Well, except for Elrond and Elros. They won’t let me be sorry for that bit. Children really are something.  
  
She stopped. Maybe it was better to take it from the top.  
__  
Dear Nerdanel,  
My name is Elros Peredhel, and, since the four of us decided to go in order of least to most private (since Elrond thinks he’s only going to be able to spell one piece of paper), and Galadriel would probably suspect if we asked her to cover a note to you, I’m starting off. Your sons Maedhros- Maitimo- and Maglor- Makalaurë- raised me from the time I was a boy. I am a man, now to be King of Númenor, and Maedhros will be coming with me. If you ever need to contact him, just write to me.  
Thank you for raising children who raised me so well. 

_Nerdanel,_  
This is Elrond again, and I feel as Elros does, that Maedhros and Maglor were as fathers to me. I am of the firstborn, and will not pass on, beyond this world or to Númenor. Maglor remains with me, and for the fact that you will still have no contact with us, I am sorry. I promise to do my best to look after him, as he for so many years has looked after me. I must ask you a favour, but one. When Elros my twin goes to Númenor, I will not see him again, so when you write to Maedhros, send them both my love.  
  
This explained some things, certainly. The word from the east had been sparse, particularly for her, though Finrod had been good enough to tell her all he could, and still, when he received word from his family, made the long trek down to do the same. But when was the last time she had heard from them in their own words? Not for centuries, at least, and marred by so much pain, by so much grief. So many dead, her sons and those they had slaughtered. But now here was this ‘son of Eärendil,’ these half-elves, who defended them. It defied belief. If the silmaril had not sat there, a testament to the truth of the thing, she would have thought it a lie.  
__  
Ammë,  
I’m sorry. For leaving, and for letting so many bad things happen, and for all of it really. Well, except for Elrond and Elros. They won’t let me be sorry for that bit. Children really are something. They said they would explain so we didn’t have to, but they also wanted to leave us more space, so I suppose that came at the price of the explanation.  
We kidnapped Eärendil and Elwing’s sons at the destruction of Sirion. It was my idea. They might have died, otherwise, as many monsters of Morgoth’s making followed after us. What I could not have predicted was that we came to love them, and they, in turn, came to love us, as we raised them as our own.  
I have to stay here, for now, with Elrond. Elros choosing mortality, and Maedhros going with him to the edge of the world hurts more than he would like to admit. He is my son, and he has asked me to stay, so I will not leave him. I don’t know when I will see you again, but know that I am as well as I can be, and that I am here by my choice, of my own free will. That is more than I had for some time, and is precious to me. Give my love to Celumë and my brothers, if any of them are ever allowed to be reborn.  
All my love, always,  
Kanafinwë Makalaurë,  
Maglor Fëanorion  
  
Nerdanel lowered the letter. She knew what had to come next, and, by what Finrod had told her, she was not sure if she was ready, yet. She looked to the silmaril. They were so much larger in her memory. She wondered if Fëanáro would take too much offence if she found somewhere to keep it out of sight and out of mind. The memory of all that had been lost for so insignificant a thing was a terrible burden.  
__  
Amya,  
This is Russandol. The truth of the matter is that I have no idea what to say that Maglor has not already said. It goes without saying that I blame you for no part of what happened. I am glad you stayed in Valinor, and wish the others had done the same. I am sorry that I could not protect them. I know you would have expected better of me. Well, maybe not. Many people have been telling me lately that I should not hold myself to so high a standard. I’m not sure if I agree, but it is kind of them to say so.  
I’m not the person who went to Beleriand. None of us are, of course, but me more so. I’m glad you didn’t have to be there to see it. It would mean a great deal to me if you would call me Maedhros. I know it isn’t the name you gave me, and I’m sorry, but it is the name I call myself, now. It is mine.  
If you write to me in Númenor, then I suppose I’ll have more space and detail. I promise to make Maglor write more to you before we sail, and to pass those letters on. If Findekáno is reborn, please tell him that I’m sorry, and to write me if he wants. Atar told me that he knew about the two of us. He didn’t know if you did, but I should tell you myself that I loved Finno, and he was good to me.  
Your son,  
Maedhros 

_P.S. Touch the silmaril. Atar is a liar who didn’t tell anyone what was really important about them._  
  
Nerdanel reached out, and did as he asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emeritus monarchs is my new middle earth canon, because there has to be some title for all those people who used to be elf kings and now aren’t but do deserve power. 
> 
> tldr: Maedhros is gonna beat the shit out of Sauron some time in the future, and I can’t wait. 
> 
> Thanks to all for reading!

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve missed y’all! I’m super busy with the end of term, but I was sick of not posting in the Silm fandom and FactorialRabbit gave me a good idea so now this exists. I’m trying something new with the weird flow-y POVs, so sorry if that’s weird -\o/-


End file.
